


The Sound of Angels Wings

by rubygirl29



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to eject from his F-15 on Christmas Eve, Major Evan Lorne needs an angel to come to his rescue in the mountains of Afghanistan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Angels Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Many thanks to Black_Raven135 for her expertise on ejection procedures and helicopters. This one's for you.

Major Evan Lorne knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the tracer fire below him. SAMs were unusual, but not unknown in this area of Afghanistan and somehow the Taliban had managed to capture a few of them from the Pakistani forces. It made flying recons over the Khyber Pass more dangerous than they should have been. Most nights, Evan didn't mind night recon flights. He liked the darkness, the rush of the air beneath the wings of his fighter, the vast expanse of the starlit landscape beneath him. The AA fire? Not so much.

He was turning to take a different tack when his fighter shuddered and sparks shot out from one of his engines, followed by a billow of white smoke. _I am so screwed,_ he thought. He fought the controls for a moment, watching his altimeter plunge and then took his only option other than riding the jet into the mountain, which wasn't in his flight plan, for sure. He had things to do with his life, places to go, wonders to explore. He sent out a mayday, popped his canopy and ejected. The rush of the explosive separation hit him hard in his spine, then he felt the quick uplift as his chute caught the air. As he spiraled down, he saw the fireball that had been his Strike-eagle fighter impact into the valley and burn. It made him sick to his stomach.

His made a rough landing on a rocky plateau that overlooked a deep valley. Pain jolted through his back, his ankle, his shoulder. His head hurt, even though he wasn't aware of having hit it. He lay there, gasping, getting his bearings. His ankle was swelling in his boot. His left shoulder was painful, possibly a separation/dislocation, but at least he could move his fingers. He unbuckled his harness and rolled away from the ejection seat. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead caused by the rim of his goggles. He took off his helmet and stanched the flow with his sleeve. There was a knot forming there and his head throbbed. He felt slightly nauseous. His GPS transponder was blinking, sending out coded coordinates to Bagram. With luck, he'd make it back in time for Christmas -- unless the Taliban found him first. If they had seen him eject, they'd be hunting. They knew the territory, knew the paths and trails, the places where he might have landed. Evan checked his sidearm. He had two packs of C-4 and detonataors in his vest, a morphine syringe and two high-protein energy bars. And a small canteen. He wasn't _supposed_ to be shot down.

He crawled behind a formation of boulders and loosened the ties on his boot to give his ankle a bit of room to swell, without losing the support of the leather. It pulsed with pain as blood filled veins that had been constricted. Lorne's stomach rebelled. He hadn't eated much before take-off, but that didn't seem to help. He gagged, spat, and rinsed his mouth out with some of his water. He was suddenly aware of the cold seeping from the ground into his body. It was winter, at a high altitude, and his lungs ached when he drew in a breath. The moon was rising over sere landscape; from his vantage point, the ridges and folds of the terrain looked like waves on a landlocked ocean, but the high peaks of the _Hindu Kush_ towered in the distance looking a cruel as their name.

The silver wash of light crept towards him and when he reached out his hand, the light washed over him like a drift of cold silk, turning his skin to silver. He shivered and pulled his hand back, tucking it inside his tac vest. He was starting to shake and the pain in his ankle was worse than it had been. He was getting a headache, and his stomach was rebelling against the water he had been sipping. He wondered if he had a concussion and that was why his mind was wandering around like a lost lamb.

Despite his nausea, he opened one of the protein bars. His body needed fuel. He took small bites, chewed them slowly, sipped water. His flight suit was insulated, but not meant for long exposure to the dark and cold. He should have been back at Bagram hours ago. Somebody must be looking for him ...

Evan had never felt so alone as he did in that high, sere plateau. He took out his binoculars and looked at the slope below him. He cursed. Not as alone as he would have liked. There was movement in the rocks below him; dark shapes, black turbans. Taliban. If he had a rifle, he'd have a better chance, but with his pistol, all he could do was wait and hope that he could take at least a few down before they reached his hide.

His radio crackled and his earpiece came to life. "This is Han Solo, do you read, Picasso?" Lorne nearly laughed in relief at the dry humor he heard in the pilot's voice. He couldn't respond, not with the Taliban so close. He clicked and the pilot confirmed. "Can't talk? Anything we can do to help? Strafing run?"

Evan clicked again.

"Okay. Can you light it up?"

 _Click_.

"We got your GPS. We're about a mile out. You hurt?"

 _Click, click_. He wasn't, not really. Just a bad ankle and a concussion, bruised ribs ... bad shoulder. He was fine.

He got out a pack of C-4 and the detonator. He packed it into the plastic, said a Hail Mary and pitched it down the slope as he depressed the plunger. The explosive shattered the calm darkness of the night. Rocks fountained, and Lorne saw at least two Taliban go down. At the same time, he heard the deep thrum of chopper blades and a powerful searchlight drove the night away as the pilot swooped over the slopes, his guns strafing the ground, taking down the remaining Taliban fighters. The chopper hovered and a rope and harness dropped down.

He nearly cried. He was reaching for the rope when another spate of machine gun fire sounded from the slope. Damned Talibs had set up a gun and were shooting at the chopper. The pilot had to lift out of range or risk going down.

"Picasso, buddy. If you've got anything left we could use some help here."

"Got your back, Han." Lorne could get to like this guy. He set his second brick of C-4. He could see where the Taliban had set up. He pitched the C-4 and when the dust and rocks had settled, the emplacement was gone.

"Stay put and watch for the rope."

"I'm not going anywhere. Umm ... maybe I could use some help."

"On the way, Picasso."

He waited and the rope and a Pararescue medic descended. He knelt next to Evan. "Sir, are you injured?"

"Bad shoulder, twisted ankle." He left out the concussion. He just wanted out of here before the Taliban decided to try again to take down the chopper. "I'm fine."

The medic helped Lorne into the harness and tugged twice to signal they were ready to be winched up. As they spun through the air, Lorne wished the world were different, wished he could have seen the world as it had been two thousand years ago. Wished he could have seen the Christmas star ... at least he had heard the angels wings.

The temperature in the chopper bay wasn't any warmer that it had been on the ground. Lorne was shivering with adrenaline letdown and relief. Now that he didn't have to focus on staying alive, pain flooded through his nerves. He grabbed the medic's arm. "Sorry, gonna be sick ..."

The medic held a bag and he tried not to topple over as he heaved. When the spasm passed the medic shone a light in his eyes. "Sir, did you maybe get a knock on your head?"

Lorne blinked. "Little one."

"Concussion." He thumbed on the back of the pilot's seat. "Sir, he's worse off than we thought."

"We're almost there."

The medic started an IV. "Hang in there, sir."

Lorne started to tell him was fine, but everything started sliding away into darkness and he faded away, imagining he heard those angels whispering to him, assuring him that he was safe.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He woke to warmth, to voices whispering. He opened his eyes. Hospital, he thought. Why? He looked at his ankle in a cast, his arm was in a sling. Memory came back. The ejection, seeing his jet crash, the fight with the Taliban. The rescue.

He turned his head. A slim man in desert fatigues was sitting in a chair. He had ridiculous hair, Lorne thought, wondering if the unruly haircut was any indication of an equally rebellious nature. He was reading a violently colored graphic novel. The patches on his sleeve explained a lot. Chopper pilots. The name on his pocket read Major John Sheppard.

"Han Solo, I take it?"

The major put down his book. "Picasso?"

"I paint."

Sheppard grinned. "I fly."

"Thanks for the rescue, by the way."

"Do you always travel with C-4?"

"Don't leave home without it."

Sheppard looked at his ankle. "Seems like you'll be laid up for a while with that ankle."

Evan grimaced. "I'm due to be rotated home, so I guess this will speed that up. What about you?"

"I'm stuck here for a while." He closed his book. "I just wanted to make sure you were going to be okay, seeing as I was responsible for getting you back safely."

"Thanks again." Lorne extended his good arm. "Maybe we'll see each other again. Maybe next time I'll be the one rescuing you."

"Dream on, flyboy!" Sheppard shook his hand and ambled off, giving him an over the shoulder wave before he vanished from Lorne's line of sight.

Evan sighed and lay back, thinking of choppers, and jets. Of friendships that might have been, or might yet be. A nurse came to his bedside. She was wearing a sprig of holly pinned on her scrubs. "Merry Christmas, Major." She took his blood pressure. "You'll be on your way to Ramstein shortly."

"Thanks." He'd rather be going home, but he was _alive_ so he wasn't about to complain. It was Christmas, and the night before, he had been saved by angels flying on the wings of a Pave chopper.

He was on a stretcher being carried to the transport that would fly him and other wounded soldiers to Germany when he saw John Sheppard again. He was back in his flight suit, his helmet under his arm, nodding to the Lieutenant Colonel who was talking to him. Sheppard turned, saw Evan and raised a hand in farewell. Then he was loping towards his chopper; an angel on another mission. As he took off, Evan felt the flutter of those wings sounding through his chest.

 **The End**


End file.
